


The Red Book: The Continuing Adventures

by mai_ei_mai



Series: Bilbo the Red [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilbo meets (almost) everyone, Gen, Post Hobbit, Wizard Bilbo, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mai_ei_mai/pseuds/mai_ei_mai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or: "How Bilbo Baggins Accidentally became known across Middle Earth as a Wizard”</p>
<p>After adventuring, the Shire tended to seem lacking in excitement.  Bilbo had spent so much time returning the Lonely Mountain as a home to his friends, that he was out of place in his own.  A proper Hobbit smial could no longer fully contain his interest.  It didn’t help that his family and neighbors didn’t understand how he had changed.</p>
<p>And so, Bilbo Baggins set off on another adventure, and continued to confuse and charm everyone on his way across the continent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Bilbo continues his adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> I do not own any of these wonderful characters, nor any of the settings of Middle-Earth. No disrespect nor offense is intended. I have taken elements from the books and movies and shaken until I got what I wanted. If anything is glaringly wrong, let me know, otherwise, I have tampered to force it to make sense. Supposedly, the timeline and geography are the only things that remains intact.

As the sun crept through the curtains of his quiet smial, Bilbo Baggins felt the peaceful nature of the Shire soak into him. The greatest challenge he would face today would be deciding between recipes for supper. The novelty of his return had finally faded from the neighborhood, no curious neighbors to disturb his morning meals. Bilbo sighed and began preparing for his day. There would be no disturbances or deviations. Nobody was due to visit for tea, his pantry was full, and he had no pressing business in the village. Nothing unexpected ever happened in the Shire. At least, nothing since his spectacular return.

After months on the road wanting nothing more than to be back home, he had gotten his wish. And after weeks of gossip and finally getting his home back to its proper place, even without all the silver spoons, thanks to Lobelia most likely, he had gotten his peace. The troublesome auction and buying back his own possessions had been ridiculous. However, the quiet was starting to feel stifling.

He had left too much of himself back in Erebor, no, too much of himself on the road to Erebor. He certainly wasn’t the same hobbit which had flung himself down the road so long ago. Nor was he the same hobbit which had faced down dragons and armies. However, he supposed it was the nature of change, not all of it was bad changes. He was tired of the fast life in battles and weary of the quiet life in Bad End. Bilbo was happy to never have to fight for his life, but also didn’t want to never again feel the thrill of surviving a challenge.

Bilbo wandered through his hallways in his dressing gown, no need to dress for just himself. As he sat down to a cold breakfast, Bilbo realized he could recite the contents of his pantry, an important skill for hosting impromptu parties, yet a completely useless ability outside of a comfortable Shire life. Even the most impolite hobbit visitors would send a short notice before inviting themselves into Bag End. Bilbo looked down at his meal, he had gathered his breakfast foods by memory, yet had no recollection of doing so.

Bilbo was going through the motions of living, without feeling the joy in it. He hosted dinner parties when appropriate, even if the guests spent most of their time looking for signs of treasure and impropriety. He was sure that not all the holes in his terrace were from gardening. He would always be Mad Baggins, a moral told to fauntlings to avoid adventures and unpleasantness. He was invited to neighborhood gatherings for his impeccable gifts and grand stories, not for his companionship. Everyone wanted to be seen with him, but nobody wanted to spend time with him. He had left his true friends under the Mountain, with the remnants of his former self.

Bilbo had just finished his breakfast, and was contemplating between the scones and the muffins for second breakfast, when a knock sounded at the front door. Silently grateful for the interruption, Bilbo hurried to find one of his gardeners, Hamfast Gamgee, wringing his hat between his hands.

“Begging your pardon, Master Baggins, it’s just that my brother Andwise over in Tighfield has gotten into a bit of trouble,” Hamfast said, “he’s asked if I could go over to help for a bit.”

Bilbo smiled at the request, “Of course you can go, why wouldn’t you?”

“It would only be for a few weeks, and I’ve already finished anything that can’t wait.” Hamfast shifted backward toward the gate, “I really must set off. Don’t worry, Master Baggins, Cousin Holman’s got everything in hand, nothing here will change until I get back.”

Hamfast quickly darted down the lane and onto the road, with his hat still clenched in one fist. Bilbo’s smile faded. “Of course nothing will change,” he murmured into the empty air. Bilbo looked onto the peaceful Shire, hobbits bustling around with their morning business. He shut his green door and turned to face the silent smial.

“Bother it,” he moved to change his dressing gown into something more appropriate for travel. “I think I am ready for another adventure. But none of that danger business, just a quick trip to see Lord Elrond.” Bilbo nodded to himself and took out his knapsack and filled it with hardy food, blankets, spare handkerchiefs, and other needed items. He strode to his office and pushed away a pile of precariously balanced parchments to reveal an ornate chest. Bilbo opened the chest and pulled out his mithril chain mail and Sting. “Never know what may happen, best to be prepared,” he murmured.

He quickly wrote down instructions for Hamfast’s return, including what to do with death notices, no matter what Lobelia could insinuate. Bilbo donned the mithril over his shirt, then covered it with a vest and his second best jacket. He left the notes for Hamfast in the gardening shed with a spare key for the house. With one final tug on his sturdy red jacket’s lapels, to adjust the straps of his pack, he set off down the road with one hand in his pocket.


	2. In which Bilbo finds a goal

Bilbo shifted in his chair, although the elves of Rivendell had centuries to perfect their architecture, they had still not yet managed to find a cushion that could make writing at a desk for hours completely comfortable. After several years in his attempts to conquer the libraries in the valley, he felt confident that writing was never meant to be easy. Not to mention, the constant distractions.

His contemplations were interrupted by a soft cough from the entrance. “My dear Bilbo, how long have you been here?” asked Gandalf. “I thought you had retired to the Shire. We were on our way to see you.”

Bilbo looked up from the manuscript he was diligently recopying. “Gandalf,” he said startled, “I fear that the Shire is too quiet these days, even the peaceful halls of Rivendell are more exciting. I have been sending letters to the Shire to keep everything in order. But no more wizard business, I have had enough adventures with you.” The wizard looked refreshed, Lord Elrond’s hospitality having washed away the stains of the road. Bilbo meant no harm with his teasing, he was adventuring on his own now, no need for a wizard to shake him out of the Shire. Although Bilbo’s adventures for himself were of literary purposes, no danger of incineration.

Gandalf set down his hat and staff for a quick hug, “One small request, and now you will never let it go.” Balin pushed aside the wizard for his own greeting. “Mister Baggins, it has been too long.”

Bilbo carefully looked over the stately dwarf, his beard was even longer and his jeweled belt was incredibly intricate. “Showing off for the elves, I see.” He said, gesturing to the elaborate clothes.

Balin smiled and said, “Erebor prospers and Dale has been restored. Everyone profits from the closeness of dwarrows and men.”

Bilbo capped his quill and turned to face his friends. “Let us retire to my rooms where we may talk about business and everything not business. I have missed news from afar.”

The next morning, Bilbo watched as the two traveled back toward the Lonely Mountain. He had enjoyed hearing about everyone under the Mountain, but knew that accompanying them would break his heart.

Bilbo was joined at the window by another guest of Lord Elrond’s. The mysterious lady had never been formally introduced, but her son Estel had constantly asked for stories when he was younger. Bilbo had enjoyed being considered a master storyteller, the child’s enthusiasm had reminded him of the fauntlings in the Shire, until they were scolded into avoiding Mad Baggins. Now that Estel was almost an adult, the requests had slowed. Bilbo knew that the young man was more concerned with training with Elrond’s rangers than watching an old hobbit write his memoirs.

“You’re going to be leaving us, aren’t you, Master Storyteller?” the lady asked. “You have been reading and writing about adventures for seven years now.”

Bilbo bristled at the accusation. “I’ll have you know that there is more information than just dry histories and bold adventures in the libraries. Did you know that offering a gift to a watcher guarantees safe passage? No idea how that’s helpful, but still interesting.”

The lady gestured to the open window. “You said that you left home because it was too uneventful, but now you know more about the history of the world than anyone here, except Lord Elrond himself. However, you only read about it. Even the elves venture forth from the valley. You will get bored, if you aren’t already. This is a cage for you, a wonderful and beautiful cage.”

Bilbo nodded, he had started to feel restless. Rivendell was always unchanging, and would remain seemingly untouched. The outside world was still dangerous, but he was very good at traveling without drawing attention to himself. The lady continued, “I am here until my son is ready to travel. Then I too will return to the wilds.” She turned from the window and sat in one of the not quite comfortable chairs. She was correct in her statements, if he had wanted an easy life, Bilbo would have stayed in his armchair in Bag End.

“We are not meant to live in solitude and peace, but to find joy in surviving,” Bilbo agreed. “Lord Elrond said the mountains should be safe, the orcs and goblins emptied them and were slaughtered.” Bilbo returned to the desk to finish his manuscript. He could make due without a better cushion until he was ready to leave.

A few months later, Bilbo arranged for his first completed memoir to be sent to Bag End. The rangers had been very accommodating with his letters and occasional package to the Shire. He gathered up empty journals and added them to his pack. He strapped on his mithril mail and Sting, and loaded his knapsack with the essentials. His red jacket had been carefully reinforced for traveling, no more lost buttons. Bilbo absently put his hand in one pocket. “South,” he decided, “I could go south.”


	3. In which Bilbo fears the dark

After a few weeks traveling alone, Bilbo remembered why he had spent so much time on his adventure desiring to return home. The wilds were cold, wet, and lonely. Setting up a campsite alone meant he spent most nights without a fire. He couldn’t forage for enough wood, setup his bedroll, and cook in a single evening, not to mention he couldn’t risk the light of the fire being seen. His ability to hunt had not improved, so he had little meat that required cooking anyway. Bilbo had to eat cold meals, a poor contribution to a hobbit’s appetite. He also didn’t have anyone to split the watches, so he slept quickly and warily.

He had to put on his ring a few times to avoid unpleasant wildlife, but he could avoid troublesome looking travelers by hiding himself. A few traders heading toward the Greenway seemed friendly, but Bilbo didn’t want to take any chances with unsavory characters. Most travelers were wary of outsiders, especially a small hobbit traveling alone.

He made his way south along the foothills of the mountains, but found the monotonous countryside uneventful. He kept to the hills to avoid the known roads, this area was notorious for ambushes. One night, he noticed a faint glimmer coming from a rock face on the mountains. Bilbo carefully gathered his gear, cleaned up his meager campsite, and walked closer.

“Moon runes,” he gasped. A clearing was filled with ethereal light coming from the glowing rocks. The light allowed Bilbo to avoid a small lake and walk closer to the rock face. Bilbo pulled two apples from his pack as a snack and sat down to translate. He finished his apples and tossed one core into the lake then stood up to recite the message. At the last elvish word, the runes parted to reveal a passage into the darkness under the mountains.

“No good can come of this,” Bilbo muttered to himself. “Trouble likes to dwell deep in the ground. But dwarven doors with elven words mean something interesting must be there.” Bilbo threw his remaining apple core into the underbrush beneath a trail of holly by the door, then entered the darkened hallway. “Moria,” he whispered, “one of the last great dwarf strongholds. Emptied by the orcs to march on Erebor.” As he passed through the room, the doorway behind him swung shut, leaving him in darkness.

Bilbo had trouble finding his way under the mountains. He spent most of his time in the dark, he had to ration his torches lest he be reduced to burning his books. He found the remains of orc and goblin camps, but tried to avoid going too far down into the deeps of the mountains. The hallways were filled with dwarven inscriptions that reminded him unpleasantly of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo spent his time wandering around, trying to find a way out of the unnatural quiet. He also tried to diligently remember what he found. His experiences in Erebor allowed him to crudely navigate some hallways, though he was forced to circle around a few times, he was not completely lost.

After months in the dark, Bilbo finally saw light coming from ahead. He crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a deep chasm. “Not all who wander are lost, but some need better directions,” he shouted in relief, the sound of his voice echoing back into the mountain. He continued down the hallway and found a doorway flanked by two precariously hung great doors. The doorway opened to a countryside brightly lit by the moon and stars. He breathed his first breath of fresh air in too long. He walked out of the door, put down his pack, and sat down to record some of his discoveries in his journal in the moonlight. He was able to scribe many new pages, but his peace was interrupted.

Suddenly, his quill skittered across the parchment as he was startled by sounds coming from the darkness. Bilbo closed his journal and ventured back into the mountain, deep into the hallway to listen better. “What could that be?” he asked the empty hallway. He crossed over the bridge and walked to an entrance to a giant room filled with stone pillars and multiple doors. He crouched in the doorway with a clear view of the room and a route back to the exit and waited with his quill and book in one hand, and put on his ring.

Deep, regular beats sounded throughout the room. Bilbo began to hear the cries of goblins. Light, as if from a giant torch, from a far door filled the open area, so Bilbo had a good view of goblins streaming into the room from its many doors. Bilbo quietly crept back to the exit. The goblins took no notice of him, but the light seemed to come closer and faster with a foul smell and pounding footsteps.

Bilbo sprinted to his pack at the doorway and grabbed it as he ran for the tree line. The moonlight allowed him to run without fear of tripping over underbrush, but the goblins also came outside. Bilbo huddled behind a fallen tree and watched as the goblins fled the fiery light. They added to the chaos by hacking at branches and setting small fires which spread to the trees. The goblins ran screaming through the burning forests, ignoring Bilbo’s small hidden form.

Bilbo opened his journal and wrote down a few lines of the spectacle, but trailed off as the source of the torch light stepped into the exit. It seemed to be a creature made of shadow and flame. Although Bilbo was wearing his ring, the creature was staring directly at him; his invisibility had failed to protect him. The fire creature roared a challenge and stepped out of the mountain door. As soon as the moonlight fell upon it, a great crash came from the sky and Bilbo was blasted backwards.

Bilbo awoke in a clearing surrounded by partially burned trees far from the exit, still wearing his ring, with a pounding headache, and a spilled rucksack. The creature and goblins were gone and daylight shone through the ashy air. Having lost his most recent journal, he gathered up the remnants of his supplies and fled deeper into the forest. He pulled off his ring and pushed it deep into his pocket, the whispers in the shadows less comforting since he could not depend on them to hide him from everything.


	4. In which Bilbo finds his courage

Bilbo slowly made his way through the forest of dense trees. He had fled into the scrub woods after the terrifying night, but the trees were beginning to grow ominously closer together. He had no true sense of his current direction, beyond the fleeting glimpses of the peaks behind him. Bilbo was trying to head east, well away from the horrors of the mountains. The denser forest filled him with alarm, he wouldn’t be able to flee as easily if hampered by underbrush. No invisibility would save him if everything could see his struggles with low-hanging branches.

Occasionally, Bilbo would hear a rustle or step as other creatures moved through the woods. He would put on his ring and crouch near a trunk to wait out the sounds. He probably hid from the wind most of all, and felt foolish for his paranoia, but better cautious than caught.

After a few days of silent travel, Bilbo felt exhausted. Walking through a peaceful forest was somehow more draining than all his cold and wet nights in the wilds. He put down his pack in between a tree’s massive roots and lay down to rest, with his ring on. Sleeping in the shadowy world was not completely restful, as he had discovered in Mirkwood’s dungeons, but it was safer to tune out the whispers that followed him than to sleep exposed.

Bilbo awoke to find himself surrounded by trees instead of twisted shadows. The ring was laying on the forest floor beside his hand, so he snatched it up and put in his pocket. Bilbo quietly cursed to himself, such lapses carried great risk. He was startled by a voice from behind him. Bilbo whirled around, trying to draw Sting at the same time, and only barely managed to avoid harming himself in the process. Sitting before him was an enchanting vision, an elf with dark hair wearing a long cloak over her dress.

“So you are creature that so frustrates the patrols.” She said, even her voice was delicate and beautiful.

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo asked, confused by her meaning. He hadn’t seen any patrols, let alone done anything to them.

She laughed at the response, transforming the dense forest into a brightly lit woodland. “The magic of Lórien speaks of an elf-friend guest, yet one none can find.” She motioned for Bilbo to follow her. “I am called Evenstar. You are welcome in Lothlórien.” Since his experiences with elves had been relatively pleasant, excepting Thranduil’s preoccupation with dwarves, Bilbo felt at ease in her presence. The Lord of Rivendell had been most generous, and if this was the legendary Lothlórien, Bilbo could trust her. Lord Elrond had mentioned his wife’s family dwelt in the Golden Woods.

The lady led Bilbo deeper into the trees, following unseen paths. They emerged from the golden trees into a grove of massive silver trees. Winding stairs crept up the trunks and spread to the branches, a city built into the very forest.

“For an elf-friend, I can grant your stay for a night, but sanctuary can only be granted by the Lord and Lady.” Evenstar seemed embarrassed by her need to adhere to protocol instead of courtesy. “The Lord is in seclusion and the Lady of Lórien is to the East; you must depart or await an audience.”

Bilbo had little desire to return to the dangers in the wild so quickly, traveling alone was exhausting. “I do not know if I have the courage to continue.” He dropped his pack next to a bench at the foot of one of the great tress. He settled himself onto the bench and asked the lady to join him.

“Courage is a strength of heart, not strength of arms.” Evenstar reassured him. “To be named elf-friend means your spirit is unmatched in mortal lifetimes.”

Her comfort was welcome, but Bilbo realized he had committed a lapse in manners. “I have been a poor guest,” Bilbo apologized, “to be known as elf-friend instead of my proper name.” He did not want to offer any offense.

Evenstar shook her head and motioned him to be silent. “Be careful of sharing too much of your background to those you do not yet know,” she began. “Names have power. I am known as Evenstar to share with you, and yet, have not shared myself.” Bilbo realized he had no idea as to the identity of the lady before him. She could be the Lady of Lórien, trying to put him at ease, or she could be a warrior like Tauriel in her courtly dress instead of hunting gear. Evenstar was not a name from the histories in Rivendell, so she could have other names, ones associated with great deeds or family. Her simple name protected her and her loved ones.

Bilbo knew the power of names. He remembered the helplessness he felt when the dragon razed Laketown based on his self-appointed name, a link which proved fatal for innocents. He supposed it was rather foolish to introduce himself and announce his home to people on the road. Bilbo thanked her for the wisdom, but had no appropriate epithet to offer. He had been given many names, but they all came from his previous adventure, none seemed to fit the currently traveling him.

“I doubt I have a name to reflect a life as interesting as yours,” he said.

“Do not doubt yourself,” she smiled at the weary traveler. “If you do this, others will follow.”

Bilbo was grateful for the compassion, he had been feeling like a fool stumbling in the wilds. “Your kindness is a gift. I have not felt so welcome since I left Rivendell.”

Evenstar seemed pleased by the compliment. “I have not seen the wonders of Imladris in many years, perhaps I too will venture forth,” she replied. “The world will not wait for the perfect conditions, we must make our own way.”

Although Bilbo felt nothing but comfort, Evenstar’s words had reignited his desire to experience the world; he had an urge to continue his journey. The woods held a sense of unchanging, like Rivendell, a place he had left behind him as being too peaceful. The excitement of the road called to Bilbo. And so, after a night’s rest, Bilbo followed Evenstar to the edge of the forest. He emerged from the southern woods of Lórien, ready to go back into the wilds.

As he farewelled his guide, Bilbo realized he had no idea how long he had spent in the mines nor in the forests, “What day is it?” he asked.

Evenstar smiled at his unquenchable curiosity. “The magic of Lórien makes little mark on the passage of time. You are leaving, so this is a sad day, but a good day.”

Bilbo knew she was being optimistic about his journey, but she was right. The sun was shining brightly, his spirits were restored, and the world was waiting. So long as winter had passed, the exact date made little difference on the road. “It is a good day,” he agreed.


	5. In which Bilbo wakes a forest

Bilbo stared at the foreboding trees ahead of him, after leaving the magical groves of Lórien and raised on stories of the Old Forest near Buckland, any new forests would be treated with consideration. He had traveled across the plains near Lothlórien, keeping his distance but following the mountains south. Although the plains were easy to traverse, and safe to travel alone, Bilbo missed the adventures of searching a new environment. In addition, there were no other travelers to meet or avoid. It was difficult to enjoy such a monotonous journey. However, the dense trees ahead seemed to be filled with a sense of other, some magic or danger. Something interesting was bound to happen.

Shrugging his shoulders, Bilbo pushed his way into the undergrowth. “Nothing ventured, nothing learned,” he muttered to himself. The overgrown bushes made walking difficult, but he refused to use Sting to clear his way. No hobbit would so uncouth as to use a sword as a makeshift gardening tool. Bilbo carefully pushed his way through, following along the plants’ natural growth lines. It was exhausting work, but necessary without the proper pruning equipment. Although moss hung from the trees, it was easier to navigate than the gloomy overgrowth of Mirkwood.

Bilbo paused in his struggles to take a breath. “Even the goblins from the mountains would have a hard time here,” he said under his breath. “The fires they lit in the forest to the North would not make much difference here.”

Suddenly, a strong wind stirred in the upper branches around him and spread throughout the nearby trees. Although he felt no breeze at ground level, leaves rustled as the branches moved through the air. Bilbo found his way more easily the deeper he ventured into the forest, the trees seemed to thin around him. It was as though a veil had been lifted from around him. Like the changing Mirkwood, the forest seemed less oppressive, more airy and inviting. Trunks swayed around him, no longer too crowded to move. The trees began to creak and moan, caught in the wind.

Bilbo took shelter beneath a rough-skinned tree, he didn’t want to get wet if the wind heralded a rainstorm. He was startled by a tree-shape slowly moving through the forest, pausing next to the trees caught in the strongest winds. Bilbo pushed himself further into his hiding place, but drew attention to himself by the sudden movement. The impossibly walking tree turned and made its way to the hidden hobbit. It slowly stretched its branches, its arms, toward Bilbo. Bilbo quickly slipped away from the grasping branches, but was unable to don his ring before he was caught around the ankle in a strong hold. The tree cleared his throat with a deep, “Hroom, hum.” The creature swung Bilbo through the air and dangled him by one foot before a weather-worn face.

Bilbo straightened his jacket, pulled his hand from his unfortunately closed pocket, trying to retain his Baggins sense of propriety. “Who are you?” he asked, finding comfort in familiar manners.

The tree-being huffed, but gentled his hold. “My name is my story, and it is growing all the time.” With that unhelpful answer, he turned Bilbo the right way up, and held him around the middle in one clasped hand.

Looking into the strange creature’s eyes, Bilbo was reminded of speaking with Smaug. Both held an ageless quality and long memories, a slumbering power that could be provoked if not careful. The creature moved Bilbo carefully and settled him into the palm of one of his great hands. “I am Fangorn,” he said, and motioned to the forest around them with his other hand, “and Fangorn is me.” He pulled Bilbo a little closer to his face. “But you may call me Treebeard.” His voice settled into a pleased hum. “What are you?” he asked. “A little orc?” Treebeard frowned at the mention of orcs, an intense dislike that Bilbo shared.

Treebeard had mentioned that names were stories, a history of a person that was personal and ever-changing. This far from anything he knew, Bilbo felt comfortable about sharing some of his past, so long as he included no details. Remembering his parlay with the dragon, and the wisdom of Evenstar, Bilbo answered the way he did best. He started babbling the truth.

“I am a little one and a great friend, a bunny and a Stinging Fly.” Bilbo gained confidence as he went along, he knew how to weave words to their best effect. “I have been called guest by kings and lords, bears and eagles, and host to a company of dwarves.” Bilbo paused for breath and continued. “I am the Clue-finder, Ring-winner, the Lucky Number, Web-cutter, Barrel-Rider, Tale-weaver, and Storyteller.” Treebeard looked confused by some of the names, so Bilbo slowed his recitation. “I am called Mad by some and Magnificent by others.” Bilbo ended with his most dear titles, “I am a Burglar and a Thief,” he added softly. He was not ashamed to answer to his more unsavory names, they were given to him by dear friends and were part of his history.

“Well,” Treebeard waited to make sure the list was complete, “that is a name I have never heard.” He cleared his throat, “I shall call you Little One, as you are quite little.” He looked at Bilbo for approval, as if Bilbo had never realized his size in the world.

“You are no orc,” Treebeard continued, “They smash and burn, not twist words.”

Bilbo had seen what damage a group of marauding goblins could do to a forest, and told Treebeard about those he had seen near Moria.

“Goblins in the forest,” Treebeard mused, “I must consult the others.” He set off deeper into the forest, still clutching Bilbo in one hand. They covered an incredible distance but stopped in a clearing like any other. Treebeard set Bilbo carefully onto the ground and let out a great echoing call. Treebeard seemed content to wait, but Bilbo made himself more comfortable and prepared a small meal.

They did not have to wait too long. Other shapes emerged from the forest, other walking trees. Bilbo watched as Treebeard greeted the other tree-beings. Some arrived quickly, they must have lived near in the forest. However, Treebeard said they needed to wait for Quickbeam, who had unexpectedly set off to the North.

Treebeard seemed ready to linger for days, or longer, apparently Quickbeam was prone to wandering for years until returning to his favorite groves. Since he had no love for sitting patiently, Bilbo said he would rather wait at the edge of the forest. Treebeard agreed, and carried Bilbo along his favorite path to the southern edge of the forest. Although Bilbo was tempted to attend the summit, and learn new lore of the forests, waiting was not his strongest suit, boredom was settling in. “You may delay and discuss all you like,” Bilbo said, “but I need to keep moving.”

When they reached the edge of the forest, Treebeard settled himself at the tree-line. Bilbo looked out across the plains, a lone tower grew from a well-ordered garden. “What’s that over there?” he asked, pointing at the structure.

“That is the wizard’s tower,” Treebeard answered, unimpressed by the imposing architecture.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, “I haven’t seen him in ages.” He gathered his pack, made sure everything was secure and started walking toward the tower.

“Don’t be hasty,” Treebeard warned.

Bilbo sighed but said goodbye, “If I am not hasty, life will pass me by.”

After two such interesting forests, and with a new appreciation of the Old Forest, Bilbo was ready to see what could be found in a wizard’s home. Gandalf owed him an unexpected party.


	6. In which Bilbo becomes a thief (again)

A great tree-lined avenue beckoned Bilbo toward the wizard’s tower. He hadn’t realized that Gandalf had any talent for gardening, but the careful layout showed a precision in care. Bilbo wandered through the well-ordered walkways, they reminded him of the manicured gardens of the Shire. It was very different from the wildness in Fangorn and the wildflowers and grasses of the plains.

Bilbo marched toward the center of the gardens, to the tower that Treebeard said housed the wizard. He wanted to give Gandalf a surprise visit. However, he was not in luck. There was no answer to his knocks on the door at the top of the stairs, the only apparent door into the tower.

“How rude,” Bilbo said, “he barges into my home and will not do me the courtesy of the same.” Bilbo lifted his had for one final knock, but the door swung opened under his fist.

Bilbo peered into the darkness beyond the open door. There was no welcome, nobody had opened the door. “How odd,” he commented. “Must be more of his magic.” Bilbo shrugged but walked into the tower, this was better than carving an unwanted symbol onto the door. Now Gandalf would truly be surprised.

However, Bilbo’s desire to visit with his old friend was not so easily accomplished. The magic of the tower closed doors whenever he passed, forcing him to continuously explore the many rooms and passages. The windows were easy to open, letting in fresh air and sunlight, but were too high to climb out. The views of the garden taunted him with a taste of freedom, but he was content with his ongoing research. It was a fine experience for a curious hobbit, but Bilbo could not find his way back to the entrance. In addition, the wizard seemed to not be in residence. He was stuck until Gandalf deigned to arrive home. The wizard was always late, even to his own surprise.

Fortunately, the tower’s magic provided food and drink for its wandering prisoner. And the rooms were filled with books and scrolls on all manner of interesting subjects, perfect for a browsing scholar. He even found a glass globe that he stuffed into his rucksack for further examination. Some part of him wanted to gaze into its depths, but he wanted to find references to it in the histories. He had no desire to worship a stone like the Arkenstone, he had seen how such a seemingly innocent trifle could bring a person so low.

Since he had no easy way to navigate, Bilbo tended to gather his belongings and any interesting items and looked at them on his way through the passages. He had no way to guarantee finding something again, limited by the tower’s whimsical ability to guide him.

Bilbo spent a few years wandering through the corridors, according to his careful record-keeping, but his solitude was interrupted by the sounds of another entering the building. Bilbo slipped on his ring and hid in his current room. He hoped that Gandalf would forgive his trespassing, and finally achieve his surprise visit. However, the figure that entered was not that of his old friend. A man in white robes, with an unfriendly scowl and black staff, stalked into the room. Beyond him, Bilbo could see doors thrown open, all the way to the entrance of the tower.

Bilbo huddled in the corner of the room, carefully concealed by his ring and piles of recently acquired books. Before him, the white robed man paced in frustration and anger. The man sat down in an ornate chair and stared into the stone atop his staff, “It could not be found near the Fields,” he murmured quietly, “And the fools believe it lost to the Belegaer.” Bilbo shivered at the ice in the man’s voice, this had to be the wizard of the tower. He would not appreciate finding an intruder in his home.

The wizard reached into his robes and pulled out a ring of heavy black keys. “I am your Lord, now,” he said to the keys, “you will reveal your secrets, give the Orthanc-stone to me.” Bilbo quickly darted out of the room, clutching his pack, he had no intention of being discovered. Behind him, he heard the wizard cursing a reckless council, a weak Turgon, and a meddling Olórin.

Bilbo tightly grasped his rucksack, for once, the whispers of the shadows were quieted. Even his ring wanted to get far away from the madman yelling at keys. If that was another wizard, it seemed that Gandalf was the sane one in the bunch. Even the Brown one, Radagast, was more friendly and less eccentric.

Bilbo sprinted for the front door as quickly as he could. The magic of the tower was finally in his favor, but not for long. The tower was closing and bolting windows, rooms were closing their doors behind him. Bilbo had no desire to be trapped inside with the White wizard. He barely made it outside before the door swung shut, a heavy thud signifying the lock being used. The tower was closed, and good riddance. After years exploring the silent rooms, Bilbo was ready to keep journeying. He put his hand in his pocket, still wearing his trusty ring. He decided he would head south along the river. Perhaps he would go to the White Mountains, or the seas, or even the kingdoms of men to the East.


	7. In which Bilbo gains a name

Traveling south from the wizard’s tower, Bilbo was reminded of his journey from Rivendell. The rolling plains were easy to traverse, but uninteresting to experience. He had assumed that he would encounter more people, and swap stories to learn about the area. However, after crossing the plains, fording a few rivers, and making his way through the foothills toward the southern mountains, Bilbo felt that any people were avoiding him. He could find no other travelers, he occasionally saw smoke from a cook-fire, but encountered only abandoned campsites.

One morning, Bilbo was lying at the base of a tall mountain pine, happy to shelter in the limited shade. Although the tree had lost a few branches to rot, the remaining leaves were dappling the ground. It had been a pleasant morning, although heavy clouds were forming. Bilbo was pleased to see a boat moored in the river to the South; he would welcome weathering a storm with others. A party of people were unloading passengers and gear into a wagon, in addition, horses were led off the boat. It would be better to be wet and cold with others, spending a dreary day alone made everything worse.

As they rode closer, Bilbo was able to see more clearly. It was a strange group, a small company of men mounted atop the horses and guarding the wagon as they rode north toward Bilbo. Happy to finally meet other travelers, Bilbo put his hand in his pocket, just in case, and walked out to meet them.

Unfortunately, the storm did not give them time to prepare. A light rain began to fall, misting Bilbo and causing him to reach back for his pack with both hands. Bilbo turned back to his resting place just in time to watch a bolt of brilliant light arc down from the sky and touch the topmost branch. Bilbo quickly pulled his arms in front of his face and ears, but was unable to drop to the ground. He heard a great cracking sound as the tree exploded. Flying pieces of bark and remnants of branches shot away from the dying trunk, peppering Bilbo in shrapnel and pushing him backwards. He landed in a heap on his back, finally safe on the ground.

Bilbo’s ears rang slightly from the explosion, but he had little time to recover. The storm could strike again. Already, the rain was deepening into a light drizzle. Bilbo sat up and grabbed at his now soaked rucksack, fortunately, his supplies were protected from the rain. However, his jacket was not so lucky. “Such a pity,” he said, sighing at the scattered holes across his torso. “I rather liked this jacket.”

“That blast should have done more than poke holes,” exclaimed one of the horsemen. He rode closer to the remnants of the tree. He seemed confused by Bilbo’s continued good health. “What manner of creature are you?”

Bilbo knew that such rudeness was to expected, anyone traveling in a rainstorm should be excused for a lapse in manners. “Good day,” he greeted the party of men. Any day which included surviving the wilds was most definitely a good day. The horseman was still wary of the small hobbit, but a word from the wagon caused him to step aside, giving Bilbo a better look at the group.

The wagon held two women, one wearing a simple cotton dress and the other in finer clothing. The woman who had spoken was dressed in heavy clothes, good traveling gear. However, Bilbo’s attention was caught by a small bundle of blankets she held in her arms. Bilbo introduced himself as a traveling storyteller, one who gathered histories. For once, his small stature was a blessing, it put the woman at ease; he looked little like a mercenary or other unpleasant sort.

“I am Morwen,” the woman said, drawing a quick look from her guards. She unfolded the blankets to reveal a tiny child, no more than a few hours old. “And this is my daughter, Andis, born as we departed the ship.” Morwen’s voice trailed off, “I buried one daughter in Gondor before her name-day, and so will not call another Idis.” She seemed unaware that she had shared such personal history, but Bilbo couldn’t ignore such pain.

Bilbo recalled a tiny form wrapped in ruined cloths in Bag End. Little Labingi had left the world too soon, and nearly taken his mother as well. The world could be cruel to children. “No parent should have to bury their child,” he consoled her. His sympathy reassured Morwen that he meant no harm to her or the party of horsemen; she invited Bilbo to journey with them.

Bilbo climbed aboard the wagon and began regaling Morwen and her companion with his stories gleaned from the libraries of Rivendell and the tower. The rain finally tapered to a stop as they set off north. The road would be long and much more enjoyable with company. Although they were headed back toward the rivers he had already passed, Bilbo wanted to spend time with others. However, Morwen’s attention frequently drifted in the first few hours. At first, Bilbo assumed it to be because of her newborn.

As they forded a shallow river, the wagon shifted on the uneven stones. Morwen gasped in pain and clutched at her middle, the nursemaid reached for the lady, but couldn’t also hold onto the blankets of Andis. With a tiny noise of dismay, the baby slipped from safety into the waters of the river.

Bilbo quickly dove from the side of the wagon, darting after the precious bundle. He felt the impact of the water, and grabbed the blankets before they could be trampled by the horses. Luckily, the shallow depth meant he could easily stand without fear of drowning. Unfortunately, the fall had loosened his pocket, his ring fell toward the rushing water. Bilbo awkwardly grabbed at the ring, juggling the baby, and slipped the ring over his finger before it could be lost. The horsemen shouted in alarm at his sudden disappearance with the baby.

Bilbo waited for the wagon to safely finish crossing before taking off his ring. He didn’t want to startle them unnecessarily. Unfortunately, there was no cover for him to use to hide his appearance. Swords were raised in response to his small form appearing from thin air.

Morwen cried out in alarm at the swords pointed at her child, chastising the men for threatening her savior. Bilbo returned to the wagon with the gratitude of the party. Morwen called a halt to their journey, forcing the horsemen to build camp long before nightfall. Once her tent was assembled, she and the nursemaid entered, leaving Bilbo in charge of the tiny Andis. Although he had little experience with children, Andis seemed content to sleep while Bilbo absently murmured to her.

As he and the horsemen waited, another group of riders approached. Bilbo was wary of the newcomers, protective of his charge. However, his companions seemed relieved by the sight of the arriving leader, a man wearing leather armor worked into an intricate design. A short time later, the maid emerged supporting Morwen, and they greeted the newcomers. Morwen weakly walked toward the leader, carrying another set of swaddling cloths. She motioned to Bilbo to follow with Andis.

Morwen pulled back the cloth and showed the man her newest child, “I give you Æftis, your daughter born in her family’s new home. And the elder is Ǣrdis, born as we left the ship in the Lefnui.” The man took Andis, newly christened as Ǣrdis, from Bilbo’s arms. The man seemed confused by the hobbit’s presence, but Morwen explained Bilbo’s actions while crossing the Adorn.

Bilbo wanted to introduce himself, but had no appropriate name to offer the horse-lord. Bilbo Baggins was meant to stay in the Shire, and Little One was too demeaning, no matter the fondness meant by Treebeard. Luckily, the horse-lord seemed familiar with such introductions on the road. “I name you Turvellon, for you are a great friend to Rohan on this day,” the man proclaimed, understanding the dilemma of adhering to courtly manners.

Morwen and her husband invited Bilbo, the wandering Turvellon, to journey with them to their home in the East, but Bilbo felt the parents had enough new responsibilities. In addition, he had ignored the possibilities on the plains. Perhaps there was more life to be found, more people to meet.


	8. In which Bilbo scratches a living

Bilbo looked up from his campfire, his attention was drawn from peaceful reflection to a great shadow forming in the East. The barren plains stretched before him, allowing him to watch the distant phenomenon. A cloud spread across the horizon and darkened the last of the fading sunlight. Even the stars could not penetrate the gloom. The ground trembled slightly, but did not affect his campsite beyond shifting a few branches in the fire. However, the quake disturbed Bilbo’s concentration on the sky and drew his attention to his surroundings. A scratch sounded from the rocks around him, something approached.

Bilbo pulled Sting and swung around to find to source of the sound, no blue glow meant it was not orcs nor goblins to trouble him, but the wilds held many dangers. Bilbo slipped his hand into his pocket, just in case, but was surprised to see a man emerge into the firelight. The man gestured to campsite, and offered out a pair of lean rabbits. Bilbo nodded at the offer, sheathing Sting, but keeping his hand in his pocket.

The man seemed to be an experienced traveler, he skinned the rabbits and set them to cook on the fire. His clothes were spun from rough cloth, and dirtied by life in the wilds. Bilbo hoped that his own clothes were a bit more presentable, there had been no need to maintain appearances with no interactions with other people.

Bilbo looked out at the darkness, “This is a desolate land,” he bemoaned. He had spent months traveling along the rivers without seeing a single other person. He was regretting his desire to travel the wilds, perhaps he was too hasty in rejecting Morwen’s offer. It was no use dwelling on the past, he had been a poor host already. “I am Turvellon,” Bilbo said, “Who are you, my guest?”

“I am Freca-kin,” the man replied, “and this wasteland is the only land open to my people.”

Bilbo flinched at his lapse in manners, it was not right to insult a people for surviving, especially if they could forge a homeland. Bilbo knew the power in homes, and the desperate actions some may take to keep them. He had left his own easy life because it was too comfortable. However, he had the option to return if he felt too challenged by the wilds.

Bilbo apologized to the man, “You must be a great people to find a home in such a land, it is no waste if you can persevere.”

The man seemed pleased by the compliment, but did not have Bilbo’s respect for homes. “We must scratch out a living.” He spat at the ground, as if offended by the dangers and difficulties of living.

“But some people require the comforts of more,” replied Bilbo, “your people have the strength to survive.” Bilbo motioned to the barren plains darkened by the night, too rocky to farm, too rough to graze, and too exposed to build settlements. “A home is a people, and the pride in maintaining it.” Bilbo continued. “This land has strengthened your people, it is yours and you are its.”

The man smirked, “The horse-lords are too soft, they would not last a generation, but we have endured.”

After finally escaping from his social mistake, Bilbo shared his campsite with Freca-kin. The next morning, the man offered to guide the wandering Turvellon, a rare honor that Bilbo easily accepted. Bilbo spent the next few years traveling across the plains, welcomed into settlements by the wild-seeming men. Although life was incredibly harsh, the people of southern Dunland and the river plains were true survivors and taught Bilbo some of their oral traditions and traveling skills.

The wandering hobbit had experienced the biting winds and storms of the plains which made permanent villages unwise. In addition, groups of men followed what little game they could find. Freca-kin allowed Bilbo entrance into a temporary settlement, a refuge hidden from those outside the communities. Some of the men traded along the Greenway and Old South Road, dependent on making contacts outside of their communities, but most sent raiders into Rohan and ambushed other traders. Bilbo tried to avoid those who depended on cruelty to others.

Bilbo found himself welcomed by the settlements, a testament to the curiosity they held for Turvellon. Although he was obviously not suited for scratching out a living, as Freca-kin had called it, he was considerate of their traditions and ways of life. In addition, he was eager to learn what they could teach. Not everyone who entered the region understood its dangers, and dismissed them as savages with no honor nor ability.

In addition, Turvellon’s avoidance of raiders showed the men that they could live without resorting to violence. It became a point of pride to live on nothing beyond the land, and to share such skills. His visits were a celebration in the communities, a break from the mundane responsibilities of life.

Bilbo spent four winters huddled on the plains, collecting tales of the Dunlendings and other travelers, his fellow inhabitants of the desolate plains, to add to his books. His persistent scribing allowed him to send periodic packages to the Shire. In part to better protect his memoirs, and to prevent Lobelia’s scheming.

Although he was welcome in the communities, he found life on the endless roads to be more diverse. Bilbo continued to travel alone most of the time, which meant he avoided most dangers using his ring. Some of his hosts commented on the strange ability, but Bilbo refused to explain the ring, wanting to keep his secret. The men were content with his excuses, too respectful to alienate him. With their hospitality, Bilbo made his way along the River Isen to the Great Sea. As he watched the surf break in the fishing towns he felt no urge to go to sea. Hobbits were not meant to swim in such depths. The seemingly endless sea appeared unnatural in its breadth and power.


	9. In which Bilbo learns to walk unseen (again)

Bilbo stared across the great expanse of the open ocean. It was hard to conceive of men willingly setting sail, dependent on the ever-changing winds to find their way home. Even the elves had tales of a land beyond the waves, a country so enticing that it required the torments of the sea as a protective barrier. Life by the sea was certainly more interesting than that on the plains, fishing was plentiful and traders used ships to offer their exotic wares.

After leaving the coast, Bilbo found himself contemplating another strange forest. The men of the region avoided entering it, and filled Bilbo’s journals with tales of its dangers, yet none could claim to have explored the forest. Such an omission should not continue while he yet traveled.

Bilbo knew that forests could contain great mysteries; he was unwilling to let such a chance pass him. He carefully walked through the woods, mindful of the trees themselves in remembrance of Treebeard and his fellows. However, the only unusual sights to be found were the many statues lining the rough paths.

Each stone figure appeared like a dwarf in stature, but crouched in peaceful rest with no decorative adornments. In addition, no weapons nor armor were carved, a lapse no dwarven mason would permit. The faces of the statues were worn flat, a sign of weathering that had accumulated over the years.

Bilbo placed his pack at the base of one of the larger statues and walked around the figure, hoping to glean more information about the artisans. However, when he returned to the front, his rucksack was missing. The soft ground offered no tracks but his own, nor was it so steep that his pack could have slipped away.

Bilbo quickly donned his ring, to avoid attracting further trouble. He walked around the statue again, hoping that he was simply mistaken about the placement. He turned around in frustration, finally spying his pack laying on the lap of the statue across the path.

Bilbo started across the open ground, now certain that someone else was present and playing a cruel trick, confident in his ring’s ability to protect him. However, before he could reach the center of the path and still out of reach of his rucksack with all his supplies, an arrow sank into the ground a few inches from his supposedly invisible toes.

Bilbo froze in confusion, the shadows around him confirmed that his ring was still on his finger. However, that could not simply be a lucky shot. The whispers quieted as Bilbo looked around for the archer.

He did not have to wait for long. From behind the statue with the stolen pack strode a silent creature clad in ragged cloths. A small man or dwarf, just over hobbit height, wearing torn leggings but no shirt nor armor. He left no tracks to mark his passing; if he had loosed no arrow and stayed out of sight, Bilbo would have considered himself alone on the path. The creature was so quiet and still, he could have been carved from the stones of region. A statue come to life to defend its fellows. The small figure held his bow ready with another shot.

“I am Drûg,” rasped the creature, “and you trespass on the lands of my people.” He raised his bow and pointed its arrow directly at Bilbo.

Since his ring would be no help, and that offering apologies while invisible showed no remorse, Bilbo removed the trinket and placed it in his pocket. Bilbo bowed his head, “I meant no disrespect,” he said. “I was trying to learn more of the statues. I am Turvellon, a traveling historian.”

Drûg lowered his bow, “A lore-keeper is welcome in the glades. But only the honest may walk the secret trails.”

Bilbo had never had his honor so questioned, but supposed that the ring may be considered a form of trickery whilst traveling. Drûg had certainly not needed any assistance masking his presence.

Drûg allowed Bilbo to gather his knapsack and supplies, then set off into the woods. Bilbo followed, hoping to learn more about the denizens of the forest. It was difficult to follow his guide, Drûg seemed to glide between the trees, little more than a fleeting wisp. Bilbo felt clumsy in comparison, leaving a swath of broken grasses and footprints marking his passage.

Drûg slowed his pace and began teaching Bilbo some of his people’s tales and skills. Bilbo spent the journey learning how to walk as part of the forest. His inherent hobbit abilities to seemingly vanish from sight assisted him in the lessons. He had depended too much on his ring to hide him in the past. Such magics were unwelcome in the forest.

Drûg led the curious hobbit into the deep woods, home to the forest people. Bilbo spent many years collecting their knowledge of the region. His journals became filled with tales of long ago peoples and sketches of local plant-life, though he had to be careful of their mushrooms.

Although the people of Drûg were cautious of an outsider, they were delighted to educate a guest willing to adhere to their ways. Bilbo found his ring to be unneeded in the groves, his invisibility a slight to his hosts.

After scribing on the last page of his many books, Bilbo was confronted by his lack of resources. He had to decide between his desire to learn and his ability to write. Although it pained him to forgo the unknown tales, knowledge unwritten could be easily forgotten. He was ready to venture forth from the forest. Bilbo had long considered himself a gracious guest, but he felt a call to return to the more cultivated lands.

A decade after entering the mountain forests, Bilbo emerged ready to continue his literary adventures. He wandered his way east along the mountains, traveling from sparse settlements to villages. He sent his journals north and acquired new pages to fill. Although the hill-folk welcomed him, recognizing the small red traveler with strange tales and abilities, their small stores could not easily feed a hobbit’s appetite nor his constant desire to add to his collection of books. Bilbo felt it was time to visit Morwen and her family. Rohan, a kingdom of men, would have more tales to learn.


	10. In which Bilbo meets a friend

The small villages of western Rohan offered much comfort to the wandering hobbit, but Bilbo found himself confronted by an impressive sight. Although prepared for a larger city, Bilbo was stunned by the imposing city on the hill. A high wall surrounded the city of Edoras, protecting it from attacks, and forcing Bilbo to make his way through official entrances. Bilbo slowly made his way to the city gates; he gave his name as Turvellon, but the guards refused him entry without an escort.

Bilbo decided that is was too much trouble to sneak into the city with his ring, he would wait for the captain on duty, Thorongil, to guide him. A few moments later, Bilbo was startled to hear a familiar voice. “Master Storyteller,” the captain greeted him, “you are far from Rivendell.”

Bilbo looked closely at the man, the uniform was that of the city guards, a people who had no reason to know of his past days in the North. However, the dark hair and grey eyes were easy to place, but with a different name. “Estel?” he questioned, recalling the young man who had followed his tales in the Hidden Valley.

The man nodded, “I am Captain Thorongil, here,” he welcomed his old friend. He stepped back and looked more closely. “You haven’t aged a day,” he murmured. Bilbo figured that it was his clothing that so confused the man, his red jacket had long been replaced, but he had tried to match the previous colors. His simple vest covered his shirt and mithril mail, and Sting was easily the same. Bilbo supposed that his appearance probably hadn’t changed much from a child’s memories.

Bilbo smiled at the name change, he had also been traveling under another moniker. “And I am Turvellon, here to see the Lady Morwen.”

Thorongil eased aside the gatekeepers’ questions, placing Bilbo under his protection and responsibility. The two northerners passed through the gate, Bilbo’s first visit to a proper city of men.

The captain led the way into the city, through winding streets to the Great Hall, located at the top of the hill. Although Bilbo was expecting the years to have affected his welcome, he was unprepared for the joy with which he was received. Morwen introduced her husband, Thengel-king, and their children.

Their son looked at Bilbo closely, and made no greeting. However, Bilbo was overjoyed to be introduced to a pair of twins, Freáhild and Freáwinë, young ladies grown on tales of his heroic river rescue. The baby of the family was a young girl with fair hair, still learning to answer to Théodwyn instead of Andis.

After his official welcome, Bilbo watched as Théoden-prince pulled Thorongil to a side corridor. Bilbo slipped on his ring to listen more closely. His hosts in the forests had taught him to use his shorter stature to be overlooked. The small, but sensible, people of Drûg were able to slip through their woodland home, they had no need for great armor nor strength of arms. The ring may be using an unfair advantage, however, it would not be considerate for a new guest to be caught eavesdropping.

Although Bilbo had put the others at ease with his small nature, as he had done as Little One and traveling with Morwen, he had no friend in the prince. The two men were speaking in low undertones of him. Théoden-prince seemed suspicious of the newcomer. “Do you know this Turvellon well?” he asked Thorongil.

The captain nodded, “His stories of honor and duty encouraged me to join your lord father’s guard, and your lady mother sings his praises.” Bilbo felt no offense, Théoden-prince was worried about protecting his family from an unknown.

The reassurance from Thorongil gave Théoden-prince no cause for alarm. When Thengel-king proclaimed Turvellon to be a friend of the king’s family, the prince made no further inquiries. As a guest of the ruling family, Bilbo was given freedom to research the histories of the land to his heart’s content. Many people were eager to hear his stories of traveling, and shared their sung epics.

Everyone was also keen to meet the small hobbit in his dashing red jacket. For some reason, people were watching him closely, whenever he wanted some time to himself he would have to use his ring to retire to his rooms. The children of the city even formed a game of finding him.

Life in the city of men was comfortable; Bilbo decided his constant traveling days were over, he was weary of the road. It was much easier to have people come to him, or immerse himself in a large collection.

A few years later, Bilbo said his farewells to Thorongil, the former captain seemed eager to serve elsewhere. He encouraged Bilbo to find him in Gondor, but Bilbo hadn’t yet finished his work on the traditional songs of Rohan. The wedding between Théoden-prince and the Lady Elfhild soon overshadowed the former captain’s departure. In addition, Freáhild finally received permission to train as a shield-maiden with the guards.

Bilbo spent his time transcribing the wonderful songs of Rohan, but his friends were changing over time before his eyes. The grief in the city when Lady Elfhild passed could not be dampened by the joy in welcoming Théodred-prince. A few years later, the passing of Thengel-king was the final straw for Bilbo’s heart.

Bilbo had lost too many friends in Rohan. After a decade watching his friends fade before him, he felt it was time to move on. Although he was still welcome, he had too much personal history in the city to enjoy the odes. The songs about his lost friends were no balm to having them gone. He kept expecting to debate in Sindarin with Thengel-king over dinner, to watch Freáhild train instead of constantly out on patrol, to see Théodwyn as a small child instead of courting a man from the Eastfold. He could no longer ignore the passage of time.

Bilbo said farewell to the newly crowned Théoden-king; and conveyed his deepest thanks to Lady Morwen, now with more grey than black in her hair. With a heavy heart, but with a lightness in his step, Bilbo set off toward the East. Perhaps Gondor would be worth the visit Thorongil had made him promise.


	11. In which Bilbo gains a student

Bilbo’s favorite place in Minas Tirith was most decidedly the library, or rather the libraries, a sprawling labyrinth of connecting stairs and corridors that wound from hall to hall, lined with bookcases. Unfortunately, care of the library had fallen out of favor, scrolls were constantly misfiled and sometimes missing. It could take days to sort through a small area, only to uncover an item he had wanted to read months ago. Luckily, Bilbo had all the time he could want to spend in the stacks.

The Steward of Gondor, Lord Ecthelion, respected the desire to learn from history. Bilbo often saw the Steward’s son, Denethor, also using the library to research some almost forgotten lore. Although Thorongil had departed the city just before his arrival, Bilbo felt that the vast collection was worth a lingering visit, even without his old friend in the city.

When Ecthelion passed away, Bilbo’s visit to Minas Tirith did not change much. He formally reintroduced himself as Turvellon, a traveling historian, to the new Steward. Denethor, a fellow scholar, looked upon Bilbo with suspicion but no malice. So long as Bilbo kept himself in the books, and out of the throne room, Denethor saw no need for trouble.

In the forests of Drûg, and cultivated in the courts of Rohan, Bilbo had learned how to appear as he was not. To the people of Gondor, he was a simple historian with a love of books, no need to search for his secrets or deeper motivations. After a few years of peacefully ignoring of each other, Denethor granted Bilbo a high honor for a visiting scholar, official tutoring of his heirs. Although this reduced his time for reading and scribing, Bilbo found eager students in the young children.

The elder son, Boromir, was an avid fan of tactics from long ago battles, but tended to drift his attention to the training yard if not refocused. However, the younger son, Faramir, could not be easily parted from Bilbo and his stories. Faramir’s curiosity was most often roused by the long absent line of kings, a fact that frustrated his father.

Bilbo tried to mitigate the unrest. “My people have no king,” he explained one day to the child. “No need since people get along without one.”

Unfortunately, that only made Faramir want to hear more. “Have you met any kings?” he asked.

Bilbo sighed and put away the writing lesson. He could not encourage the young boy to question and learn, then refuse to provide answers. “I have met kings of men, elves, and dwarves, and call some my friends.” He trailed off into contemplation. “But there was only one I would call my king, no matter how strained we became.”

Faramir seemed ignorant of the tension, “What happened, Master Turvellon?”

“He and his heirs fell in a war I could not prevent. Many years ago.” Bilbo shook himself of the melancholy. “Now then, go find your brother and see if he’ll teach you a new trick in the training yard.” The day’s lesson would keep until tomorrow. Faramir was too excited to listen, and Bilbo needed a few moments to himself. Sometimes, Faramir and his curiosity brought up unfortunate memories.

Faramir carefully put away his writing materials and scampered away. Bilbo knew that such questions would continue to irritate the Steward, and that no good could come of it.

Since the lesson had been postponed, Bilbo found himself with a free afternoon. He had been trying to find a particularly stubborn book on the policies of dealing with Umbar, which was nowhere to be found in the easily accessible corridors. However, Bilbo had not yet managed to access the Steward’s personal library in the Tower. Although allowed to freely roam the Citadel, Bilbo felt hesitant to encroach so closely to the Steward.

Bilbo put away his materials, gathered a small satchel for carrying books, and walked to the courtyard. He felt confident that he would be able to quietly make his way to the upper levels of the Tower, it should be no more difficult than the dungeons of Mirkwood. He took out his ring and put it on; as always, the whispering shadows gathered around him, but Bilbo kept his mind on his self-appointed task. He waited until the guard stepped aside to dart into the busy throne room. Denethor would hear petitions until supper, and few people were allowed higher in the Tower, so Bilbo should be able to browse the library without fear. The unseen hobbit made his way up the Tower’s many staircases as quickly and as quietly as possible.

As he neared the topmost level, the whispers began to grow into a single voice. Bilbo passed an open doorway, a room in which the Lady Finduilas, Denethor’s wife, sat in front of an open window. Bilbo paused to make sure she was unaware of his presence, then followed the voice to an unlocked door farther down the corridor, rather careless in such a secure area, but he wasn’t going to ignore such temptation. Bilbo eased the door open and entered a room filled with overflowing bookcases. The personal library of the Steward was messier than Bilbo expected, but Denethor didn’t seem likely to allow a servant in his sanctum.

Bilbo followed the voice to a chest covered in intricate carvings. He removed his ring and placed it back into his pocket. He carefully lifted the lid of the chest to reveal its contents. Lying inside of the chest, nestled into soft fabrics was another of the strange glass globes.

Bilbo felt an intense need to keep the globe, so powerful that he decided to stop looking for his book on Umbar. He wrapped the globe in its fabric covering and lifted out the mound and carefully placed it within his rucksack. He closed the chest, left the library, and started back down the corridor. He was halfway down a staircase before he realized that he was walking in a restricted area without his ring. Bilbo frantically put the ring back on and ran the rest of the way downstairs to the throne room and outside the Tower. He was so distracted by the voice as he traveled through the shadows that he ripped off his ring as soon as he was alone and sprinted for his rooms to rest.

The entire experience put an incredible fright into him, so Bilbo immediately put the cloth-covered globe next to the other in his pack and tried to forget they existed.


	12. In which Bilbo returns home

The sounds of rustling parchment roused Bilbo from his daze. The sun was brightly shining, a constant distraction for those trapped indoors. It seemed that his students had finished their exercises on formal grammar. Bilbo looked up at the children he had seen for so many years. Boromir was excited to finally be considered old enough to leave Bilbo’s lessons and train in the yard all day. Although Faramir was still learning the intricacies of Gondorian history, Bilbo felt that there was little the child could not teach himself if left the proper written resources. Both children had been distracted by their mother’s lingering illness, so Bilbo had arranged an exhibition for them to watch in the training yard as a special treat. Something to capture their attention away from the Tower.

Bilbo crossed over to the window to check on the status of the yard below. The training master would signal when all the preparations were complete. However, a large bird sat on the window sill, blocking the view of the training yard. It jumped from the window, startling Bilbo with its sudden movement. The bird hopped a few times toward him, then held out a leg awkwardly.

“You have a message, Master Turvellon.” Boromir stated. “I can help retrieve it, some messenger birds can be fussy.” Boromir left his desk and knelt in front of the jumping bird, while Faramir giggled at the spectacle.

Bilbo stared at the unusual sight. “Who would send me messages in such a manner?” he asked. Boromir shrugged but handed over a small capsule that had been tied to the bird’s leg. The bird flew off once its burden had been removed, so Bilbo looked out the now clear window and saw the yard was ready. He dismissed his students and told them to report to the training master.

Once he was alone, Bilbo opened the capsule, unrolled a tiny scroll, and read its few lines of cramped script. He quickly paled at the message, and ran for his rooms.

“The poor boy, stuck in Brandy Hall like an unwanted toy” Bilbo muttered as he threw his traveling gear into his pack, lastly placing two cloth bundles on top of the assorted possessions. “And me, eight years out of contact.” Bilbo chided himself for being too lost in the book stacks, it was a poor excuse.

After making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, Bilbo strapped his mithril mail over his shirt, and donned his red vest and jacket. His ring was carefully placed into his pocket with the small message. He gathered his rucksack and picked up a stack of clothing tied into a bundle. The tailors had finally finished his gift for Faramir.

Bilbo left his lodgings and headed for the Citadel, he would have to follow the proper protocol to leave the city. As a visitor and an employee of the city, there would be no excuse for a lapse in manners. He waited for an audience with the Steward and apologized for leaving so abruptly. However, Denethor waved him away with only a cursory glance. The Steward had little attention to spare for his children’s beloved tutor, especially since the boys could now seek out books on their own.

Bilbo left the Tower and set off for the lower city. He searched the crowded training yard to find the boys, both perched on a low wall with a good view of the spectacle. Boromir was entranced by the display of the skills and gave a quick farewell, too distracted to understand, but Faramir was happy to speak with Bilbo in a quiet corner.

Bilbo handed the roughly bundled package to the boy. Faramir untied the red ribbon and tucked it into his pocket. He unfolded the black cloth to reveal a custom-designed uniform. “The symbol of the king,” Faramir murmured, absently tracing the embroidered tree and stars.

“Just like the uniforms of the Guards of the Citadel.” Bilbo agreed, “This was meant to be a happy day, but I must say farewell. Urgent business calls me North.” Bilbo hated to depart from such a dear friend, but he was needed elsewhere.

Bilbo embraced Faramir one last time, and gave some parting advice to the studious child. “Words are powerful, Faramir, wars are started and ended with the words of kings.” Bilbo paused to make sure the boy’s attention was caught, Faramir was always interested in hearing of kings, “Battles can be avoided, allies found, and enemies made with no more than words. Be careful, my boy.”

With that, Bilbo left Minas Tirith to journey along the Great West Road. Some part of him wanted to continue traveling, perhaps farther to the East, but the message in his pocket called him home. Bilbo traveled as quickly as possible, he made short camps in the evenings and kept to the main roads.

He used his ring to avoid other travelers, in too much of a hurry to linger. He made his way to the Gap of Rohan and forded the River Isen to the Old South Road, but was stopped at a ruined bridge. The river was too deep to ford safely, so Bilbo forced himself across the collapsing bridge. He lost his footing many times, and nearly his entire pack as well, but he finally made his way along the Greenway and back to the Shire.

Some forty-odd years after leaving his home for the second time, and months after receiving the decisive letter, Bilbo Baggins stood before the green door of Bag End. It would take a short time to gain the respectability needed to claim his lone family member. He would have to visit the Thain, and especially Brandy Hall, but Bilbo was ready for his next adventure to be in the Shire.

Bilbo unlocked his door and pushed it open. He entered his home, set down his traveling gear, and closed the door behind him. “Well,” he announced to the quiet smial, “it won’t be peaceful for too long with a fauntling running around.”


End file.
